


i don't know what love is (but i think it might be you)

by palpatine



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, F/F, Guest starring Cat Grant as the cheeky philosophy teacher, Not Beta Read, Thank you Alice Wu for my life, The Half of It AU, We die like brave writers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24031588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palpatine/pseuds/palpatine
Summary: “A letter. I want you to write a love letter for me.”Kara blinks. That is new. “A love letter,” she repeats in disbelief.He nods. "For Lena Luthor.”The sweat in her palms feels weird against the bicycle grips. She wipes them against her jeans. “Lena Luthor?”The universe must be kidding her.
Relationships: Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor
Comments: 23
Kudos: 194





	i don't know what love is (but i think it might be you)

**Author's Note:**

> Based on The Half Of It, which i saw the other day and loved right away. Seriously, it's so good, if you haven't seen it already, you need to *cries*  
> hope you enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it :D

_The ancient Greeks believed humans once had four arms, four legs, and a single head made of two faces. We were happy. Complete. So complete that the gods, fearing our wholeness would quell our need for worship, cleaved us in two, leaving our split selves to wander the earth in misery. Forever longing. Longing... for the other half of our soul._

_It is said that when one half finds its other there’s an unspoken understanding. A unity. And each would know no greater joy than this._

_Of course, the ancient Greeks never went to high school._

_Let alone a public high school in Modern Greece—_

The shrill melody of the alarm clock jars Kara out of her thoughts. She clicks a key on her keyboard; _period_. Then, a combination of them; the printer turns on and prints and prints.

A night’s-work worth of essays is now splayed on the floor of Kara’s bedroom. The alarm clock reads seven-thirty-two, and both of her hands get to work. She puts them together, stacks them on top of two books that she’s to return to the library today, and runs downstairs.

Maybe it’s the weather getting warmer and warmer, maybe it’s that second bowl of cereal she had minutes ago, but the ride to school today is not particularly enjoyable.

“Fucking geek.”

_Ugh. Again?_

It’s these two words two of her classmates yell at her as they pass her by in the narrow street in their stupid truck.

Kara tells herself that she won’t let their comments get to her. She can’t let them; instinctively, she is biting the inside of her cheek. She's got it.

Her watch reads eight o’ clock. School hallways at this time of the day remind Kara of a beehive; way too much buzzing. And students swarming around classrooms can be annoying after a certain point.

Kara navigates her way through them as best as she can. Her arms—and mind—are still quite full; there’s still essays to give to people, and these books need to be returned to the library before noon. A mental list of chores to be completed when she gets home is also in process. Laundry. Ironing. Writing. Picking up some tomatoes. More writing.

Oh, and that damned electricity bill is to be paid by Mon—

Sharp pain cuts through her left shoulder and, suddenly, she’s on the floor.

“Careful, _geek_.” She looks up to see that same idiot that had yelled things at her earlier. He has apparently just bumped into her, accidentally, although his smug smile tells her otherwise.

_Ugh._

She can’t deal with him right now. Or the snicker of students passing by.

 _What-fucking-ever, idiots_.

And, _honestly_ , how many petitions does she have to sign for the local community to even consider building another high school in the area?

Her books fell with a clatter, papers due sixth period scattered around her like waves of a maddened sea.

Her hands rush forward, clumsily reaching for the essays.

“Who would’ve thought Greeks were the actual barbarians all this time, am I right?” is all she hears before she looks up and sees Lena Luthor kneel in front of her.

It’s a witty remark, but all Kara does is readjust her glass before her gaze is lowered to the floor.

Lena reaches for one of the books. “ _The Complete Poems of Sappho_ ,” and Kara looks up and catches a glimpse of Lena’s smile. “Quite an interesting read, if you ask me.”

Kara smiles shyly and bites her lip; internally, she’s cursing the day and time she decided to check out the book from the school library—

“I’m Kara Danvers,” she blurts out and her right hand comes to cover her mouth.

“Yeah, I know,” Lena says playfully, and Kara’s heart skips a beat. Or two. She hands Kara the books and adds, “We literally attend the same classes.”

 _Idiot_ , Kara thinks to herself, hastily gets up and turns around as she _feels_ her cheeks get hotter. This is _not_ the time for her to be getting sick. She needs to get out of there; Lena can’t see her like that.

“Keep your eyes peeled for more barbarians, Kara Danvers!”

Kara smiles to herself and clutches her books closer to her chest.

She’s outside the library when she readjusts her glasses again. “I’m Kara Danvers?” she repeats softly to herself and it comes out laced with disappointment. _Really, you idiot?_

Kara wants to tug at the drawstrings of her hoodie, so that she is perceived by no one else today. That was one too many awkward human interactions for one morning. She sighs; she can’t; she has choir practice, first period, she thinks and scoffs.

And Lena Luthor will be there, too.

Oh. _Oh_.

* * *

_“Hell is other people” – Sartre_

Kara keeps staring at the quote written on the whiteboard.

Miss Grant turns around to face the class. “We… are the source of our own hell—” The bell marks the end of sixth period. Philosophy. Miss Grant sighs. “Five hundred words on Sartre’s use of thwarted desire, Monday.”

And with that, papers are being left on Miss Grant’s office, and students swarm out the classroom. Lena is leaving, too, but before she does, she turns back to look at Kara. She offers Kara a short smile, but the latter doesn't return it; she instinctively places a hand on her chest. This flu or whatever it is is really making Kara's heart beat faster. _Huh_. She takes her time to calm down, picks up her stuff and moves to hand in her essay; when she gets to Miss Grant's office, there is no one in the room but these two.

Miss Grant's fingers are silently counting something. “Six different papers on the same topic in two days. Impressive.”

“Miss Grant,” Kara starts, but the teacher cuts her off.

Miss Grant brings her mug to her lips. “Kara, we both know that most of them don’t even know ‘Sartre’ and ‘satire’ are two different words.” She takes a sip of her coffee, and Kara thinks about it and nods in agreement.

“How come you never turn me in?”

“I think I’d die of ennui if I ever had to read their actual essays.” They laugh. “Now that I’m thinking about it, in a way, I should pretty much thank you for my life.” They laugh again.

Then a moment of silence.

Miss Grant is gathering her stuff, then takes out a leaflet from her purse and slides it to Kara.

Top of it reads ‘ _Aristotle University. Faculty of Philosophy_.’ Kara doesn’t want to read any further. She looks up at Miss Grant who’s looking at her with a warm smile.

“I’m gonna study here, on the island.” Miss Grant scoffs. “I can live at home and—and help mom with her work. It’s—it’s not ideal, but it’s what’s happening.”

“Kara, their Philosophy department is one-of-a-kind. I spent five of the best years of my life there.”

Kara shakes her head. “And look at you, back on our _lovely_ island.” She regrets speaking to Miss Grant like that. She adds softly, “Sorry.”

Miss Grant’s tone matches Kara’s, “You’re right. Stay away from philosophy. If only for just a weekend.” She takes another sip, and that cheeky smile is back on her face. “Go for a walk, a swim, a date, something. I don’t wanna come here on Monday and hear you spent the weekend at the library.”

“Yeah, okay. Sure,” She says in a monotone and realizes she doesn’t sound convincing.

“Oh, who are we kidding?” she laughs. “I’ll see you Monday, Kara.”

* * *

Kara is leaning against a bookcase, an uneasy finger scanning the index pages of a book. The words on the pages seem foreign to her, though. She’s feeling rather unfocused, and that meeting with Lena this morning has nothing to do with it.

It is not what’s on her mind. _It is not_.

The usual musk of an empty library is stained by something she can’t quite put her finger on at the moment. She closes the book and noise the old tome makes would’ve earned her an annoyed comment, but today she’s all alone in the room.

Or so she thought; she hastily scans the room; someone’s there. Watching her.

A guy.

 _Great_.

Kara takes another look at him, and he’s now walking toward her. She makes to put the book back, but he speaks before she can do it.

“Kara, right?” he asks, but it is not really a question. “Kara Danvers.”

She feels her eyebrows raise in faux anticipation.

The guy nods. “I’m James. James Olsen.” He offers his hand, but Kara doesn’t take it.

“Three pages is ten euros,” she says hastily, and puts down the book on a counter, but huffs when she hears another ‘hey’ from the guy. “Thirty for five pages, can’t help you with anything longer than five pages at the moment.”

The guy looks at her, stunned. “I’m not trying to cheat.”

“Okay, yeah. No one is. What class is it for?”

“It’s—I don’t want you to write a paper for me. No.”

 _Ugh_. A waste of her time. That’s what it was.

Might as well be just another guy trying to mess with her.

 _Anyway_.

She exits the library, straps her helmet on and gets on her bike. It’s early afternoon, and all she wants is to get out of there, but the guy—James, runs to her side.

If she wasn’t too exhausted already, she’d admire his stubbornness but, now, he is really just getting on her nerves.

“Look, I have a hectic schedule,” she says, and it comes a bit harsher than she wants to sound.

“A letter. I want you to write a love letter for me.”

Kara blinks. That is _new_.

“A love letter,” she repeats in disbelief.

He nods. "For Lena Luthor.”

The sweat in her palms feels weird against the bicycle grips. She wipes them against her jeans. “For Lena Luthor?” The universe must be kidding her.

“I like her. I want to ask her out.”

“I-I can’t help you.”

He insists, “Just a few words. It doesn’t have to be—”

“I’m not writing to Lena Luthor,” she says loudly, and then elaborates. “A love letter is personal, can’t help you.”

Then she’s on autopilot, her legs working as hard as they can to get her home as soon as possible. When she gets there, her lungs are struggling for air and she’s sweating around the straps of her backpack.

“Had a good day?” she hears Eliza ask, but the only reply her mother gets is Kara’s bedroom door slamming shut.

A layer of guilt pangs through her chest, before she opens the door to say, “Yes, be with you in a few.”

* * *

The aroma of the fresh tomatoes in the basket in her arms tickle Kara’s nostrils, and she hums happily. She turns around, and _James is here?_ —standing almost right behind her. Her mouth falls open just as a tomato falls off the basket and thuds on the ground.

She looks around. “James? What are you—”

“Kara. I’m sorry.” He reaches for the fallen tomato. “I was wondering if you thought it over. You know, love letter? Lena Luthor?”

She rolls her eyes. _He has literally come to her house—well, her garden, to ask her that? At two p.m. On a Saturday._ “No, James.”

She makes for her house, but he skips to her side and walks with her.

“Please.” _No._ “Come on, Kara. I’ll pay you extra.” _No_. “Fifty, it’s all I have at the moment. But I can get you more.”

She isn’t exactly in a position to give him an elaborate answer on why it’s a bad idea, the basket in her hands only feeling heavier with each step.

He’s following her—or rather, walking with her into her house, occasionally peppering the silence between them with some ‘Come on, Kara’s and ‘please’s.

With the tomatoes secure on the kitchen counter, James produces a note from his left pocket. She knows she’ll regret asking this. “What’s this?”

“Things I want to tell Lena.”

The knot in her throat that appeared yesterday only gets tighter as she takes it from his hand. She skims through it; well, tries to—James handwriting is not the neatest she’s seen. Her eyes jump to the tomatoes and then back to the letter.

It’s, well, an experience; for some reason, James thought it would be good to mention his father, who’s in the military, in the letter. Or the fact that he can drive.

 _And what with that?_ Her nose scrunches.

“Is it that bad?”

Yes. The answer is yes, it is _that_ bad.

The word ‘pretty’ is mentioned thrice in the short letter, and the letter itself—well, it could use some editing.

She tells him that.

Kara pushes her glasses further to her nose as she gets to the signature at the end of the note. She reads the words out loud, mostly to make sure her eyes are not playing games with her. “James. Football player. Captain of the team. I make the nicest cherry jam. You should try it some time.”

She looks at him, and he smiles innocently. The corners of her mouth lifts upward as she tries to find something nice to say.

“Look, Kara, I know I’m not good with words. That’s why I came to you in the first place.”

She doesn’t say anything at first. She merely hands back the piece of paper.

“You like her? Lena?” she asks and regrets it immediately.

His eyes open wide. “I’m in love with her.”

She coughs. “H-how do you know?”

He smiles. “I know it ‘cause she’s the one I think of when I go to bed and the one I think of when I wake up.”

“Oh-kay,” Kara says out loud and mentally ticks a box on the list ‘how to tell if you _like_ like the prettiest girl in your class’. “But have you spoken with her?”

James nods no, “Tried to, but couldn’t.”

Kara recalls her and Lena’s interaction yesterday and ticks another box on that list.

“But you’re sure you like her,” she says, and it sounds more like a question, than a conclusion.

“Pretty much. Kara, you know how these things are.” Kara doesn’t reply. _She doesn’t? Does she? How could she know?_ “No? Wait, Kara, you’ve never been in love?” His expression makes her want to scream; she doesn't.

She huffs, hands him his stupid note.

“I will rewrite the letter for you.” It leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. “We could keep the jam part. It’s good. The rest of it, eh.”

Before she can lift her eyes from the floor to look at him, he’s taken her in his arms and is spinning her around. He is satisfied, Kara notices, and her feet are on the ground again.

She takes a step back lest he does another silly move. “One letter, and that’s all. Then, you’re on your own.”

The voice inside her head telling her she’s an idiot is too loud; she’s being asked to do something stupid, and she’s already agreed to it. James is repeating something to her, grinning like an idiot—she can’t make out what he is saying. She supposes he is thanking her and, she forces a smile that lasts a split second.

And, then, he’s out the door.

She doesn’t remember walking out the kitchen or taking the path to the beach.

“No, no, no, no, no,” she keeps repeating to herself, and the short breaths she’s taking aren’t helping her calm down.

_No, no, no, no—_

She stops when she’s at the coast. She blinks twice and her helmet is off her head, then falls softly on warm sand. The afternoon breeze is now freely placing salty kisses on her cheeks, and an anxious hand is going through tousled hair.

 _How did she agree to this?_ Lena Luthor is… Lena Luthor. The prettiest girl she’s seen. And the way her eyes get soft when she’s reading at the library—

She takes a deep breath. Then, another. If this really is a cold, then why does she suddenly feel so hot?

Her eyes examine the fishing boats scattered on the sea before her; they look like white flower petals spread on blue velvet. The slow hum of their engines sound like a harmony to Kara’s ears. The way the sea glimmers reminds her of all the tiny stars she and Eliza used to map on warm spring nights when she was younger.

This time her smile is not forced; she lets out a breath she’s been holding in.

The next time air fills her lungs, Kara is determined.

James wants a love letter? She’s going to write him a _great_ love letter. A great love letter for Lena Luthor. Lena Luthor.

It is going to be epic. She’s certain of it. Yes.


End file.
